


Switchblade

by PoeticallyIrritating



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, F/F, Knifeplay, some plot but it's all literally a shameless setup for root and shaw to dress up fancy and have sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:07:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7025017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeticallyIrritating/pseuds/PoeticallyIrritating
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A number, a gala, a fancy bathroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switchblade

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this my formal request for art of Shaw in a tux and Root in a black gown.

It takes half an hour of concerted effort for Shaw to convince Finch that she doesn’t need to wear a dress to the gala. (The enticing of predators might require an attempt at femininity; this mission does not.) In the end, Shaw and Bear take a field trip to rent and tailor a tux. Shaw lobbied for a blazer and khakis, but the look Finch gave her would be enough to make anyone reconsider.

She dresses in the bathroom, struggling with the concept of a shirt that fastens with studs instead of buttons. She refuses help from anyone but Bear, who—regardless of his other fine qualities—can’t contribute much in the way of opposable thumbs. When she emerges, the front door has just slammed shut after apparently carrying a breathless, windswept Root inside. She’s wearing a narrow, floor-length black gown. Finch is gaping.

“Miss Groves,” he says, “I set aside several acceptable dresses for you.”

“Sorry, Harry,” Root says, with something that could only be described as a simper. “They weren’t quite my style.”

“Where did you…get that?”

“Oh, you know.” She smirks. “Befriended an heiress, seduced her bodyguard, stole a gown from her personal collection.”

Shaw raises her eyebrows.

“What?” Root shrugs. “I was bored.”

Finch hands Shaw a business card for a hotel. “You will meet your limousine at this address in thirty minutes. _Do_ try to blend in.” His glance at their respective outfits suggests that he doubts their ability to do so.

Shaw groans. “A limo?”

“Ooh, fun!” says Root, and it looks like Shaw’s outnumbered.

The limo driver is silent and unobtrusive, simply confirming the address of their destination when they get in the car. Shaw keeps an eye on him, mistrustful of anyone not in their immediate circle, but he seems nothing more or less than competent and respectful.

More irritating than a stranger driving the car is Root: her hands are folded primly in her lap while she hums response or approval to the constant stream of information in her ear from the Machine. When the Manhattan traffic and Root’s humming have combined to drive her completely up the wall, Shaw takes advantage of the slit up the side of Root’s dress and slips her hand under the fabric, fingertips resting against skin. She fixes her eyes on the opposite side of the limo.

Root smirks. “No need to be so eager, Sameen,” she says in a voice like a purr. “We have all night.”

Shaw digs her nails into Root’s thigh.

 _“Sameen,”_ Root says more sharply. The sound makes her heart drop into her stomach and her skin flush pleasantly warm; she lets go.

“Don’t worry,” Root murmurs in Shaw’s ear. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Finch was right—they do make a remarkable entrance. Guests are milling around, occupied by a dozen different conversations, but Root and Shaw still enter to the sound of significant murmurs. Root’s hand rests on Shaw’s hip, hand warm through the fabric, and Shaw entertains herself briefly by considering the variety of other things Root could be doing to her with that hand.

Finch, speaking through her earpiece, describes the number (tall, blonde, mid-forties) and Shaw locates her in the corner of the room, chatting with an older man. She nudges Root, who nods, murmuring, “I see her.” They slowly make their way in her direction, stopping at every appetizer platter for Shaw to sample a stuffed mushroom or truffle-oil scallop. (She’s still chewing when they get close enough to hear the number’s conversation.)

Root draws Shaw to her, tugging on her lapels, and leans in to flutter kisses along her neck. “Isabella”—Shaw pronounces Root’s cover name through a mouthful of crab salad crostini—“I’m eating.”

“And I’m spying,” Root murmurs in her ear. Between their bodies, she pulls out her phone and bluejacks Julia Petrovski’s cell. “You getting this, Harry?” she asks, her breath still tickling Shaw’s neck. Shaw swallows her seafood and ignores the pleasant warmth building in her stomach.

Finch’s voice comes to both of them: “It seems Mrs. Petrovski has a bit of explaining to do. I’m seeing a lot of late-night phone calls from a blocked number.”

“Affair?” Shaw asks.

“It’s likely. I’ll look into it. In the meantime, keep your eye on the number…and please, try not to kill anyone.”

“No promises,” Shaw growls, eyeing Root’s hand on her hip.

“I’ll do my best, Harry,” Root says sweetly.

Finch sighs. “Please operate with caution, Miss Groves. I need you there to handle the on-site security system, but don’t make me regret permitting you your choice of escort.”

After he signs off, Shaw raises her eyebrows dangerously. “So it’s _your_ fault I’m here?”

“I told you,” says Root. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Shaw rolls her eyes toward the elaborate ceiling. “What do you think—murderer or murder-ee?” She nods toward Julia Petrovski.

“Ooh, I hope murderer.” Root’s eyes sparkle. “I do like a woman with a knife and a temper.”

Shaw bites back the obvious retort. “The husband?”

“Or the boyfriend.” She shrugs, then winks. “Or girlfriend. You never can tell with these society types. So many dark secrets.”

Before long, everyone is ushered to their seats. Root and Shaw have been placed at their number’s table, thanks to some maneuvering on Finch’s part. They introduce themselves as Sameen and Isabella: Isabella is on the guest list thanks to her manufactured and distant relationship to a reclusive billionaire; Sameen is her date. Root laughs falsely at everyone’s jokes, and Shaw plasters a smile to her face and tries to nod at appropriate moments.

A man with an overwhelming mustache takes the stage to deliver the opening remarks, and Root giggles in response to apparently nothing. Did the Machine just tell her a _joke?_ Shaw feels like trying to strangle her. Again.

As the next speaker takes the stage, Root stands up, placing her napkin on the table and murmuring an “excuse me” and a reference to powdering her nose. She leans down to whisper in Shaw’s ear, “I’m going to check out this famous security system,” and leaves Shaw to deal with the society wolves on her own. She squeezes Shaw’s hand as she goes, which isn’t much consolation.

There’s a break between speakers in which the entrée is served, and Shaw’s smile gets thinner and thinner in response to the pointed comments from her dinner companions.

“I had no idea Milton had a niece who was—well— _you_ know.”

“Are you her first partner?”

“Where are you from, exactly?…No, I mean, where are your _parents_ from? You know what I mean.”

“Minnesota,” Shaw says, smile utterly brittle. A man a few seats down from her looks on in alarm as she mutilates her lobster tail.

When Root returns looking triumphant, Shaw grumbles, “Never leave me alone with these people again. I was this close to a sextuple homicide.”

Root’s fingers rest lightly on Shaw’s knee. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she breathes in Shaw’s ear. “Wouldn’t want you to cause a scene.” She narrows her eyes at the crustacean on her plate. “I handled security.”

As if on cue, Finch’s voice pops up in Shaw’s ear. “Miss Shaw, Miss Groves, I’ve found out the identity of our mystery phone number. His name is Daniel Lawson. He’s a significant shareholder in RyoTek, a company that specializes in the production of processors for high-end computers. He also seems to have some connections to mob activity, so _please_ be cautious.”

“Is he here?” Shaw says, low, as if she might be speaking to Root.

“I’m afraid so. RyoTek is one of the sponsors of the event.” He pauses. “Please don’t hesitate to call in backup. As you know, Mr. Reese is patrolling the perimeter.”

Shaw texts Root, holding her phone under the table and looking blandly in the direction of the current speaker at the podium. _Might be business instead of pleasure._

 _Nobody said you can’t have both. ;)_ Root backs up the emoticon with an actual wink, and Shaw closes her eyes and hopes for an imaginary higher power to release her from this ridiculous situation.

 _Think she’s a danger to his company?_ Shaw asks.

_Or he’s just jealous._

Their number chooses that moment to head to the bathroom, leaving her purse on her empty chair beside Shaw. Hidden by the tablecloth, Shaw reaches out and passes the purse to Root, who digs through it. She  shows Shaw a page in an address book—three days ago, _Meeting with Dan, 3:00._ Root excuses herself from the table again to make a report to Finch, and within minutes of her return, Finch has new information.

“I was able to access the security feed from Mr. Lawson’s office during their meeting, and it appears that Mrs. Petrovski was blackmailing him. She had acquired a piece of sensitive information regarding his company and was threatening to expose it if he broke off his relationship with her.”

Root smirks. Under the table, Shaw’s phone lights up.

_What did I tell you? Business AND pleasure._

Finch’s alarmed voice appears again. “Miss Shaw? Miss Groves? It seems that you have some company at the gala.”

“What kind of company?” Shaw asks, low.

“The hired gun variety. It appears Mr. Lawson has taken some extreme action to prevent Mrs. Petrovski’s information from surfacing.”

“Can you get me a location on this guy?”

“He appears to be seated at table seven. I’m sending you both a photograph.”

When the speakers are finally finished, the party begins to move to the other half of Ballroom A, which is set up more like an actual ballroom, complete with musicians. Shaw moves to keep an eye on the number as three hundred people move from one place to another, and Root jabs her with a bony elbow. “There he is,” she says. “Your nine o’clock.”

He has a knife up his sleeve, the point glinting in the chandelier light. Shaw reaches out, lightning quick, and twists his arm; he yelps and she snatches the weapon, but he’s a quick draw and has a gun on her before she can counter. To Shaw’s left Root’s taser crackles with electricity, and the assassin darts away and straight into his own knife. Flesh rips under Shaw’s hand as the blade digs deep into the man’s thigh muscle, and he yells and launches himself into the crowd. Shaw goes to chase after him, but the throngs of people are too much to fight through, and suddenly she’s lost him. “Reese!” she says. “He’s heading for the east exit—can you intercept him? He’s injured.”

“On my way,” says Reese. “What about the boyfriend?”

Finch’s voice now. “We’re here to prevent violence, Mr. Reese. Nothing more.”

“So we’re letting the bastard go?” asks Shaw.

“Don’t worry,” Root murmurs, breath hot against Shaw’s ear. “I put the fear of God in him in the bathroom.”

Shaw shakes her head. “So we’re…done?”

A yell and a grunt on Reese’s end is followed by, “Got him.”

Shaw wipes the bloody knife with a napkin and places it in an inner pocket of her coat. “That was easy.” She looks around at the crowd: she heard a gasp during the fight, but it seems like the noise in the room has saved them from any large-scale commotion.

Root smiles, skin flushed from the fight. “Want to dance?”

Shaw grunts. “Not much of a dancer.”

“Then do you want to get out of here?” Root’s eyebrows dart up, eyes sparkling with something like mischief.

Shaw doesn’t let Root see the beginnings of a smile on her face, but she nods. “Please.”

Root takes the lead.

They only make it as far as the bathroom. It’s elaborately decorated, all gilt and marble, and Root enters under the guise of taking down her hair. Shaw watches her from by the door, turning the lock, and Root’s on the fifteenth bobby pin when Shaw growls in frustration and presses her against the counter with a bruising kiss. Root groans into Shaw’s mouth and bites down on her lower lip. It’s almost hard enough to bleed, and as she releases it she pushes back against Shaw’s chest. It’s a rough, sudden shove that slams Shaw against the opposite wall, and Shaw breathes deep and slow in appreciation of the force of it—of all of Root’s wiry strength concentrated on her body.

Root moves in as Shaw shrugs off her jacket and kicks away her shoes. Root traps Shaw’s hands over her head, the backs of Shaw’s arms cool against the marble. She’s going slowly now, almost startlingly so after the outburst of force. Her hips roll deliberately against Shaw’s, and she tugs Shaw’s tie loose, then removes the vest and starts taking off the tuxedo shirt, one-handed, letting the studs clatter to the floor.

When she unbuttons Shaw’s pants, Shaw warns, “Root.”

“Be patient, sweetie,” she says. She helps Shaw out of the pants and then the fingertips of her free hand are trailing along Shaw’s abdominals, which alternately tense and relax under her touch.

She’s the only person Shaw’s never seemed to be able to intimidate. The knowledge turns her pliant, along with the way Root’s teeth press sharp points of pain against a tendon in her neck. Root’s hair is beginning to tumble down her shoulders but is still trapped in half a dozen bobby pins, and Shaw wants to tangle her hands in it. Root bites down hard on the flesh of Shaw’s breast and sucks a dark purple mark into her skin.

She likes that Root doesn’t hold back with her, doesn’t have to—doesn’t want to. And she likes holding back, yielding to the resistance against her wrists. Letting Root restrain her.

Root releases her hands (but it doesn’t matter; the force of Root’s eyes alone could pin her to the spot) and walks back to her purse on the counter, heels clicking against the floor.

“I’m getting tired of undressing you,” Root says, and she flips open a switchblade.

“Finally,” Shaw says.

It still feels like an eternity while Root swabs the blade with alcohol and walks back over to where Shaw is pressed against the wall. With the blunt edge against Shaw’s skin, she slides the knife up Shaw’s abdomen and severs her bra in the front, letting it fall away from her breasts. The point of the blade presses into her skin as Root traces it back down her stomach, and then she slides it beneath Shaw’s underwear, the back of it pressing into her thigh. In one motion, she tears through the fabric and the underwear falls away, leaving Shaw naked and expectant against the wall.She draws back, surveying the body in front of her and fingering the edge of the knife.

“Don’t you dare put that away,” Shaw says, low.

“Oh, don’t worry,” says Root. “I wasn’t going to.” She hums low, like she does in absentminded response to the Machine.

She moves forward again, looking thoughtful, and presses the sharp side of the blade horizontally between Shaw’s breasts, pressing just hard enough to elicit genuine pain. Shaw breathes deep into her belly and closes her eyes.

She can detect the exact moment that Root breaks skin, not by sensation, but by the delighted “ah” sound that Root makes. It’s followed by a drop of blood running down Shaw’s chest to her navel, and she squirms at the feeling; Root reprimands the motion with a firm press against her hips.

Root moves the knife down a half inch or so and slices another clean line into Shaw’s chest. Shaw’s breath is audible this time, something between an exhale and a groan, and Root hums in pleasure as she moves to make a third parallel line with her blade.

She stops when she reaches the stomach, the knife edge biting into Shaw’s skin one last time, and leaves her with five lines stacked parallel in the middle of her chest. Shaw’s eyes flutter open as Root produces a cloth from her bag and wets it in the sink, and Shaw watches the cloth stain red as Root wipes the blood from her thighs, stomach, chest. Another alcohol swap is to wipe the wounds—Shaw hisses at the sting, trying to simultaneously strain into and away from the sensation.

“You’re so warm.” Root hums with pleasure again. “Are you done, or do you want—”

“Root,” Shaw says hoarsely, “if you don’t fuck me now I’m going to shoot you.”

Root smirks. She’s still in the gown and she sinks to her knees, a collapsing column of black. “I thought so.”

“Don’t you ever shut up?” Shaw growls.

Root winks. “Every once in a while. When I find something better to do.”

Shaw’s hips roll forward involuntarily at the press of Root’s tongue. Her hands scrabble uselessly against the smooth wall before they finally find purchase in Root’s tangled hair, and Shaw tightens her grip at the paired sensations of Root’s mouth on her and the stinging cuts on her chest.

Shaw’s orgasms come unheralded, practically silent, but by now Root knows them, can feel the slight tremor in her legs and the way her muscles slacken. It blooms low in Shaw’s belly, and when it’s over Root sits back on her heels and waits for her to recover.

When Shaw’s breathing has begun to return to normal, Root stands and hums happily at the successful clotting of the wounds. She runs her finger over one, feeling the beginnings of a scab. “Gorgeous,” she murmurs, and Shaw feels a little like her body is an art project or a science experiment.

She doesn’t think she minds, when it’s Root.

**Author's Note:**

> There are a Lot of things I'm not used to writing in this fic (action! plot! kink! etc) so feedback is more appreciated than ever!


End file.
